Nudger considered yelling for help. But he could barely hear the music from the club downstairs. The office was almost soundproof. No one would hear him. No one would come if he called.
Sievers angled his body slightly sideways, suddenly was airborne and twirling, his right foot slashing out in what karate aficionados call a crescent kick. Nudger leaped backward and felt a brush of air as Sievers' tassled brown loafer arced past his face.
But the backward movement to avoid the kick left Nudger near a corner, with almost no room to maneuver. Sievers stepped closer again, setting himself for more explosive mayhem. He felt about killing with his hands-or feet- the way Hollister had felt about making music.
Nudger knew there was a single, low-percentage chance of staying alive. Not taking that chance would be reprehensible. Would be giving up. Forever.
He gulped down his terror and charged.
Sievers was caught off guard by this sudden attack from a supposedly subdued opponent. That was why he just grazed the side of Nudger's head as he danced nimbly from the path of the charge and chopped hard with the heel of his hand. Not a clean hit. But no problem for the old trooper. He actually laughed at this unexpected sport.
Nudger's right ear was numb and buzzing. His desperate surprise attack had gained him nothing. His back was literally against the wall now. In a very few seconds he would join Billy Weep.
Sievers was moving closer, crowding him, daring him to charge again, wanting him to charge, yearning to taste fully the violence he'd only sampled; his fighter's blood was up. The bland man's compact body was coiled inside his conservative brown suit, building energy to trade for Nudger's death. His eyes hardened; he cupped his hands in peculiar half-fists and crouched low to spring. He became very still. He was ready.
Nudger didn't hear the shot.
He doubted if Sievers heard it.
Presto, change-o! There was a round bluish hole just left of center on Sievers' forehead. It might have been a magician's illusion or the special-effects magic of movieland. Only it wasn't; it was real life. Real death. His body didn't move, but the energy seemed to flow out of it; the intensity drained from his eyes. He was his old bland self. Amiable average Marty. The guy you'd want your sister to bring home to dinner.
Nudger looked over to see Fat Jack still standing mountainous behind his desk. Almost lost in the big man's right hand was a tiny, small-caliber pistol that looked too toylike to cause real damage or have anything to do with the hole in Sievers' head.
Things weren't as they seemed; the gun had done its job. Something moved in the corner of Nudger's vision and there was a solid thump. Sievers' body dropping to the floor.
'He didn't leave me no choice,' Fat Jack said in an oddly breathless voice. 'He was gonna leave the friendly fat man for Collins. He went nuts. Shit, he might have even killed me after he was done with you.'
Sievers wasn't quite dead. His body began to vibrate and flop around, his heels banging on the soft carpet with a speed and rhythm Sam Judman downstairs on the drums would have envied.
The sight horrified Fat Jack. He began to suck in air deeply, unable to stop staring at Sievers. 'It was you or him,' he said, still in his breathy voice. 'I had to put my trust in one of you, old sleuth. You or him.' He lowered the thousand-pound gun to his side; his arm hung straight, as if strained by the weight. 'Hey, you're my only way out of this, Nudger.'
Nudger wasn't sure about that, but he wasn't going to differ with Fat Jack. He looked down at Sievers. People shouldn't do this kind of thing to each other. It was all so damned unreal; hairless bipeds running around on a spinning globe of matter, whirling through an infinite universe, loving and hating and killing each other when they were all they had in the emptiness. What was going on here? Never had death by another's hand seemed so wrong to Nudger, even though his own life had been saved.
Sievers went into violent convulsions then, his arms flailing and his fingers trembling as if electrodes were attached to their tips. Nudger's stomach began to flop in time with the body on the floor.
'Hey, Jesus, make him stop, Nudger!'
'I can't,' Nudger said simply, staring mesmerized with Fat Jack at Sievers and the small hole that didn't belong in his otherwise unmarred forehead.
'Ah, Nudger, you gotta make him quit shakin' like that!' Fat Jack's eyes were wide and he was pale and perspiring; the loose flesh draped over his collar jiggled with his effort to turn his head. But he couldn't look away. His bulk began to quiver almost like Sievers' convulsing near-corpse. He was weeping, sobbing in horror. Nudger felt the old pity for him. It wasn't surprising, since he shared Fat Jack's revulsion for what had been done here. Death was never an easy thing, but this was grotesque. The entire room seemed to vibrate with the force of Sievers' convulsions.
Fat Jack glided out from behind the desk, approached Sievers with his moist eyes clenched almost shut. With tremendous effort he raised his arm, pointed the gun, jerked the barrel back as he pulled the trigger.
The gun made very little noise; a flat, slapping sound.
Sievers was unaffected. Fat Jack had missed.
'Oh, Christ!' the fat man moaned. 'Oh, Christ! Oh Christ!…'
He moved closer, fired again. Again. A small hole appeared near the base of Sievers' neck. He didn't bleed; there was no power left in him to pump blood. A little strawberry-colored froth built up in a corner of his mouth, like pink soap suds. Nudger's stomach lurched and he swallowed. This wasn't at all the way death by shooting appeared a million times a night on a million television screens; this death was soul-wrenching to watch.
Fat Jack was sitting on the floor now, his huge legs stuck straight out in front of him. His pants legs were twisted up on him; his ankles, clad in black nylon dress socks, were surprisingly thin. Great tears, as befitting such a huge man, were tracking down his face, dropping to spot his white shirtfront. He was clutching the gun tightly between his legs with both hands, as if he'd been kicked in the groin and it still hurt. He couldn't stop sobbing.
Sievers finally got finished dying and lay still.
Nudger continued to feel a subtle vibration. His heartbeat. He drew a deep breath and held it for a while, forcing himself to be calm. Then he took a step toward Fat Jack and looked down at him. 'Get up.'
Fat Jack couldn't make it by himself. Nudger had to grip one flabby, perspiration-slick wrist and heave backward as the big man floundered, almost fell, then struggled to his feet.
More composed now, Fat Jack wiped at his cheeks with his sausage-sized fingers. He dragged a forearm diagonally across his damp face. He didn't have to look at Sievers now; he couldn't look at him. He kept his gaze up, away from the floor. Nudger waited for the deep resilience to come into play.
After almost a minute had passed, Fat Jack straightened his mussed pants and shirt, ran his fingers through his thinning gingery hair, and looked at Nudger with the old light of pure reason back in his piggy little eyes.
'Same deal as before?' he asked.
Nudger didn't have any alternative. His primary consideration was getting Ineida back home alive and unharmed. Staying alive and unharmed himself. He nodded.
Fat Jack tossed the tiny spent revolver into a corner, moved to the desk, and began hurriedly stuffing his pockets with whatever he thought he might need and could carry. He knew the police were digging right now in Hollister's garden. Digging. Digging.
'I'm going to phone Collins' home in one hour,' Nudger reminded him. 'If Ineida's not there, my next call will be to the police.'
'She'll be there. Hey, trust me. I trust you, Nudger.'
'Neither of us has a choice,' Nudger said.
'That's the way the world works, old sleuth. No choices. Not really. Not for anyone. Slide Marty's wallet out of his coat and hand it to me, will you?'
'No. You get it.'
'I can't, Nudger. You know that. I gotta have some money! A man can't run far without the green stuff!'
'I told you before, I've got nothing to lend you.'
Fat Jack tried again to look down at Sievers, but he couldn't make it. His head rotated slightly toward the body, but his eyes wouldn't follow; only the glistening whites were aimed at Sievers.
'All right, old sleuth,' Fat Jack said resignedly. 'I'm going on the cheap.'
He tucked in his sweat-plastered shirt beneath his huge stomach, wrestled into his tent-sized suit coat, and without a backward glance at Nudger glided majestically from the room. Even the hell of what had happened here
